


Real Life Lover

by Howling_Harpy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Berlin (City), Dirty Talk, Gay Bar, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-War, Reunions, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Dancing, Tom Of Finland References, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howling_Harpy/pseuds/Howling_Harpy
Summary: A chance meeting at a club and a dirty comic book bring back dreams Carwood gave up on a long ago.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 12
Kudos: 71





	Real Life Lover

**Author's Note:**

> I am not done with my speirton feelings so here you go, take some sweet sweet loving action. Other than that, this fic is purely build around my Tom of Finland references, and the work of art referenced here does actually exist, although I'm exercising my artistic freedom with the timeline once again. 
> 
> A big thank you to Lysel for her continuing habit of cheering me on while I write and posting good gifs for inspiration!
> 
> Please enjoy this fic, and consider leaving kudos and a comment, they make a writer's day!
> 
> *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO drama series and the actors’ portrayals in it. This has nothing to do with any real person represented in the series, and means no disrespect.

The clubs of West-Berlin were like the red guts of a beast hidden under the rocky scales of the city. They were always inconspicuous to the point where one had to know they were there in order to visit one, and to gain that knowledge meant either networking or finding out the code that led there, both of which were dangerous. 

Carwood knew the route well and so wasn’t worried about that, but what he did worry about was being seen on his way there or out. He had a coat and a hat he only wore when he was out clubbing so he could avoid detection in case he was spotted by someone from work, but until now he had been lucky.  
His regular place had been there for six months already, a remarkably long time for one of their kind of a clubs, and every time Carwood went there he feared it would be gone. He feared and half wished it so, because now he knew he shared the territory with someone, and that had been something that had completely blindsided him.

It was a club in a cellar, and to get there you had to walk down a small alley, take the rusty railing and steady yourself so you could safely take the narrow, uneven steps down, and then you had to give a specific knock on the door. 

After knocking, he had to wait for exactly half a minute before the door opened and he was let inside. The doorway was lit with a single lightbulb, and the familiar bouncer didn’t even need to look him over to let him in.

After the door closed behind him, the bouncer stepped back and parted a heavy dark curtain to the club itself. As soon as the curtain was parted, he was bathing in red and purple lights of the club, warm, dim, and welcoming in their shameless boldness. 

The club was so small that even a small crowd made it look packed, the men and women mingling effortlessly but mixing only with their own. The space had probably been a wine cellar back in the day as it was a network of small rooms connected to each other with heavy stone arches and no doors. The walls were rough, bare stone, but the atmosphere was softened by many soft lightbulbs under red and purple glass shades, the beautiful little tables and booths padded with pillows, and the golden yellow jukebox with an exceptionally large variety of records.

He knew by now the layout of the club, and he knew to linger by the bar, far enough not to be seen from the door and close to the dancefloor, but far enough not to look too eager to be swept away. He also knew to avert his eyes from the rooms separated from the main layout by curtains of glass beads that didn’t provide much more than a shared illusion of modesty.

He went his usual route, avoiding the dancefloor and the groups of people, dodging inviting glances and ending up at the bar. He ordered a regular drink, something he ever only half finished as it wasn’t the point, and chose a stool to sit. 

This was his fourth time after his frightened break week, always at the same evening at the same time, but still it had been three weeks of nothing. 

Now that nothing had happened Carwood felt silly. Locking eyes with someone he knew at a place like this had sent a cold spike of fear through him, and no matter what had been before he had feared for the worst so much he hadn’t dared to come back. 

Now as he sipped his Campari with orange juice, he didn’t even know what he had expected that week. With embarrassment he had to admit to himself that he had been so shaken he hadn’t thought rationally, simply feared the worst like having the police to show up at his door or even worse, at his workplace, and arrest him on the spot while loudly announcing to everyone what exactly his crime was. 

Someone went to the jukebox and chose an English rock song with banging drums and to Carwood’s ear erratic guitar, but it summoned many younger patrons to dance so it must have been good. The dancefloor was the largest open space in the club, modest but serving its purpose, and he knew by now that many came there just for the simple joy of dancing through their evenings. Not him though. He hadn’t felt much like dancing lately, not once since the encounter. 

Carwood had to admit to himself that what he had been doing here for weeks now was waiting. He had done nothing more than come here, ordered as many drinks as it took to justify his lingering without socializing, and stared into the crowd in hopes of seeing those harsh eyes directed at him again.

He had recognized Ron Speirs immediately and felt his eyes on the back of his neck even before that. Thirteen years was a long time and Carwood had never before seen him out of the uniform, but from his rigid stance he had been able to tell that the rumours were true and that Ron Speirs was still an army man. Seeing him bathe in the red and purple of the club in a sharp stylish suit and staring at him had accelerated Carwood’s heartbeat so fast it had made him light-headed, but immediately after that had come the fear.

_What is he doing here? He can't be here by a chance. What does he want?_

He had been certain that Ron wasn’t there because he wanted to, but because he had been ordered to. He was sure he was one of those who snooped out the clubs and the meeting places, lured the naïve young men to him and then turned them in to the police.

When Ron had kept the eye contact and started to make his way across the club towards him, Carwood had been sure he was done for.

In retrospect it was silly that the thought had ever even occurred to him, and even sillier that it had kept him away for a whole week. Especially since instead of luring or interrogating, Ron had simply come to him, then with a quick smile pushed a small comic book into his hands and walked away. 

Even now sitting alone at the bar Carwood felt his heart thumping with anticipation. That was what it had been all along, he was sure, especially when he had taken that book with him even though he should have left it at the club.

He had flipped it open and blushed deep red immediately, and he had known right then he should have washed his hands clean of it, but it had been a gift so he felt obligated to keep it. Obligated, yes, but also possessed by something, some deep aching nothingness that had finally seen light, and even though he had been spooked and shaken and his rational side had screamed to leave all evidence behind him before he returned to his daytime life, he hadn’t been able to.

Carwood looked around the club again, searching and hoping, but disappointed had to turn back to his drink again before anyone would catch his gaze. His heart beat fast and he wondered again how he had let the fear keep him away. What Ron had given him should have been a clear enough signal, but just him appearing out of the blue and moving towards him like he had, the only person who was a part of both his lives and shattered the illusion that this was something he picked up and left behind at clubs like this, had overwhelmed him. 

What the comic book had was nothing like Carwood had ever seen pictured before. It had pictures of things that shouldn’t have been pictured at all, things that were invisible and unmentionable and should have been kept in cellars and hook-up places – or left behind in officers’ billets, bedrolls on the floors of occupied houses, showers, the CO’s office and the silk sheets of Austrian hotels. He had taken the comic book home and hidden it between an old engineering textbook that he had pushed in the back of the drawer of his nightstand. He had even taped the comic on the pages of the textbook to prevent it from slipping out on the unlikely event someone else but him would move it.

He was a soldier, and thus despite being a god-fearing man he had lain his eyes on many raunchy magazines and picture books. He had simply humoured the guys even though he had never paused to look at any of the pin-up girls, and definitely not the pornographic drawings and photographs of women wearing next to nothing and baring everything to the camera.

He hadn’t understood what they got out of mere pictures, but now he realized that none of those had ever had anything to say to him. 

The gift from Ron had been a whole another thing, and Carwood had immediately known he wanted to look at it closely, carefully, and alone in bed. From the first moment when he had flipped the comic book open, he had been captivated. All he had ever seen about men supposedly like him were either joking or meanspirited cartoons of dandy and delicate men, or pictures from drag shows, and everyone knew that came off as soon as the curtain fell. Only Carwood couldn’t take whatever made him like this off, and he hadn’t ever felt he belonged to either of those groups. He had never seen men like this pictured, but he immediately recognized them and was infatuated. 

He knew the tall, muscular men with short-cropped hair and strong jaws. He knew the way clothes pulled tight over strong arms and thighs. He knew those cocky smirks and those postures, both the show-offish lean and the perfect attention. 

The style was exaggerative like erotica often was, the men’s muscles overtly defined and each one well-endowed almost to comical extent, but he immediately loved the attention to detail, every crease of tight jeans and the shine of leather. 

He downright adored the black boots some of the men wore and showed off to others like them, other men who answered the flirtatious posturing and challenging displays with smiles and pursed lips. 

Somehow it felt like something just for him, not only from Ron who had pushed it into his hands, but from the artist himself. There was someone far north in Finland who called himself Tom, who knew something about Carwood and had put it on paper for him and all to see. 

During dark hours of various nights, he had discovered his own favourite scenes, even his favourite guys. He wasn’t a big fan of facial hair even though the artist seemed to be, but there were other guys with just as much playful aggression to them who were more to Carwood’s liking. 

There were dark-haired guys with strong arms and confident stances. On several pages they were clad in uniforms, and though Carwood hadn’t had that much to do with sailors, he recognized the cliché and found the easy camaraderie among the broad men in glorious navy whites and tilted sailor caps charming.

But his favourite was the man with his dark hair combed back and an army cap worn low on his brow, standing in a confident pose with his chest bare and his legs astride, wearing pressed uniform trousers and heavy army boots. And kneeling at his feet was another man with blond hair, completely nude and straddling his leg, his hands and chin resting on the other man’s strong thigh and an adoring look in his eyes. 

What made that particular picture his absolute favourite was not only the familiarity in it that made it feel like it could have been another of his army mementos, but also how the men were looking at each other. Their gazes were locked, the kneeling man smiling and lovestruck, and his half-clothed dark lover smiling with just the right amount of dirty smirk and a kind look in his heavy-lidded eyes. 

When Carwood looked at them late at night alone in his bed, he felt his lips tingling with how much he wanted to see them kiss, and his own stomach flipping when he followed the thought. He imagined the dark-haired commander hoisting his kneeling blond up and properly against him, kissing him stupid and then undoing the buttons of his fly so that they could take pleasure from each other in every way possible. 

For weeks now, the pictures had been all he had, and he feared his cowardice had cost him his chance.

The jukebox switched records, this time something more familiar coming on. It was a slower song with a recognizable swing rhythm and a crooning trumpet, and Carwood felt a tug of nostalgia at it while wondering how the club’s jukebox still had one of those. He was sitting at the bar with his back to the dancefloor and in the middle of a sip from his tall drink, when he felt a heavy warmth against his back and lips against his ear. He set the glass down and was about to turn to tell the stranger that he wasn’t interested, but the polite rejection died on his tongue when the stranger spoke.

“Care to dance?” 

Carwood felt his heart jump so hard he gasped at the feeling, and like flipping a switch the mood changed from tedious to electric. 

He leaned back just enough that he could turn his head and glance at Ron, who was leaning over him with an inviting glimmer in his eyes and a smile on his lips. Anticipation ran tense between them and only pulled tighter when Carwood felt his back come in contact with Ron’s chest. 

Age looked good on Ron, the lines around his eyes and mouth dignified and his dark hair still lush with a touch of grey on the temples, and the reckless vigour he had possessed as a young man had refined into self-possessed confidence. He looked like he had lived life, and Carwood refused the pang of sadness of not being there for it.

“Yes,” he simply replied.

Ron stepped back to allow him to stand up, and abandoning his drink without a second thought Carwood followed him. He didn’t need to think when Ron offered his arm, and he didn’t need to think when he was led into the red lights towards the music and among the rest of the dancing couples. 

Ron had steady hands and a confident hold, and he easily spun Carwood to face him, then pulled him in close, their feet in step and hands finding each other. 

Thirteen years yawned between them, thirteen years lost, years both gaping and then disappearing at once. There were a million things Carwood wanted to ask Ron, a million rumours and regards he wanted to run by the man himself, but all of it disappeared like snows of yesteryear when Ron set his hand on the small of his back, held him and led him to a dance. 

He couldn’t look away. There was nothing to say, only their eyes conversed, both holding the shockingly steady eye contact that they couldn’t bear to break. They swayed to the beat of the music in the way all the couples had back when they had been young. 

Carwood watched the red and purple lights washing over Ron’s still familiar if older features and wondered what Ron saw in his eyes, if he had a million things he wanted to ask.

There was a smile on Ron’s lips, one of those that probably still frightened other men, but to Carwood that almost smirk teased good things. He let the unblinking stare of Major Speirs pierce him right to the core, and he returned it with all the warmth he had reserved for this man. 

Ron held him close in that gentle yet firm way he always had as they danced. The hold wasn’t tight, but something about its confidence and how heavy Ron’s hand was on the small of his back told Carwood that if he tried to step back, he wouldn’t be able to. Ron’s hold was the finest trap he knew, one he had barely remembered clearly enough to miss, but now that he was back he breathed out like a weary traveller who could finally rest. 

They didn’t speak one word as they spun, not even when the song came to an end and changed into another. For a moment of quiet they stood still, and when a new song came on, Ron led Carwood into another dance, this one with slower steps.

Ron’s steady hand became suddenly heavier. It didn’t move from Carwood’s lower back, but it pressed against him firmer and guided him closer to him so that Ron could lay his chin on his shoulder and speak over the music into his ear.

“Did you like my present?” he muttered in a soft voice.

Carwood flushed. He let himself be rocked through the music that thrummed through his whole body, a thrumming that had already sparked enough heat to warm him up, but this was a different kind of warmth, one that only Ron seemed to be able to wave. “I did,” he admitted in a mutter. 

Ron let out a content hum, and Carwood could imagine his smile. “I thought you would, but feared you didn’t.” 

Carwood knew this would be the closest Ron would come to calling him out on his disappearance. He felt a tingle of guilt over his stunt and imagined Ron coming here and waiting for him all night, then wondered if Ron had gone back to the American military base fearing just like him that his life would soon come grumbling down. He grasped a handful of Ron’s suit jacket by his shoulder and gave his hand a squeeze. “I liked it,” he assured again while feeling like he had confessed to something more. 

Ron breathed against the shell of his ear, and the hand on Carwood’s back stroked him in a calming manner. “Thought you would, Lieutenant,” he said with a breath of a chuckle. 

If Carwood hadn’t felt warm under his collar before, he did now. He thought about those pictures and wondered how carefully Ron had looked through them. He wondered if he had favourites, and if they liked the same things. He had a feeling they did. 

Suddenly he wished Ron could have been in his uniform here. During the war he would have been, and no one would have said anything about it. Carwood missed the wool blend of the uniform and the sharpness of its lines, the shining brass and the stiff leather of the jumpboots, both on Ron and himself. They had been connected then, truly cut from the same cloth. 

“Yes, sir,” he hummed in reply into Ron’s ear, playing along. His hair was soft, combed in place but left natural, and with a strange flip of his heart Carwood realized he recognized his scent. He could have sworn he’d find this man from a crowd blind. 

Ron pulled him closer, as close as they could be while still dancing. “You always looked so good. Still do. I knew you before I even saw your face,” he confessed, rapidly whispering into Carwood’s ear like he had to hurry the words out before some imaginary window of opportunity closed.

He needn’t have worried; it felt like the time stood still. Carwood’s heart shimmered with delight and threatened to beat out of his chest at Ron’s words, and he grasped his shoulder tighter to try and let him know how he felt. 

What they were doing must have been obvious to every single soul around them. Carwood leaned his head against Ron’s temple and stared up into the colourful lights and watched the club around them swimming by, the small tables, the bar, and the glimmer of the glass bead curtains. 

He wondered what all the regulars thought of him now, the frigid man who just sat here and drank, now so easily swept onto the dancefloor in the arms of this man. Some part of him that had been self-conscious about himself even in here was amused by how they must have looked. This was who it took to have him, this was the kind of a man who could pick him up and do whatever he wanted. 

But instead of any flattery to his masculine bravado, Carwood just leaned against Ron, too close to move his feet in proper dance steps anymore, but too warm to care. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered into Ron’s ear and meant it. It was strange. Once he had accepted the heartache and simply packed it up with the rest of his equipment. He had imagined that with his discharge he had also regained his heart and all foolish things would be left behind, but that hadn’t been so. Now every line on Ron’s face was a memory he hadn’t been there to make with him, laughter he had missed and worries he hadn’t soothed.

Ron tightened his hold momentarily and didn’t respond, then pushed him away just enough so that he could lead the dance again. Carwood had to shake himself awake from some sort of a trance to find the rhythm of this new song that was playing. He didn’t know the song and he didn’t care, just followed Ron’s lead across the dance floor. 

He was once again far enough that they could look each other in the eye, and there was a strange fire burning in Ron’s that Carwood inspected curiously. Ron was always like that, surprisingly ready to rise up to a raw bait. The men had always said that Ron had a temper and that he was hot-headed, but Carwood doubted anyone would have guessed that his fiery nature extended to love. 

There was a rattling sound like from a rhythm instrument, and the red lights had suddenly shadows among them, shadows and then glimmer. For a moment Carwood was confused, but then he realized Ron had led him right on the edge of the dance floor, away from everyone else, and danced him through the curtain of glass beads that were now draping over his back and shoulders.

The pink, blue and purple beads rattled and reflected the lights of the club like the finest jewels, softly swinging as Carwood was pushed through their frozen waterfall of crystals. 

There was a moment when he was on one side and Ron still on the other, crystal pearls separating them, and Carwood pulled Ron after him until they both had passed over and appeared in the hidden corners of the cellar, a secret corner of a place already secret. 

“Missed me, huh? How much?” It sounded like a challenge, Ron’s temper hitting sparks.

“A lot. Often,” Carwood whispered back, not even exaggerating for the sake of the mood. There had been an empty space left by Ron, one that had never quite healed and never taken over by anyone else. His reply earned him a push that made him stumble, but the couches near the wall were wide and soft, and Ron still held him like a dancing partner and lowered him onto the pillows. He relaxed onto the cushion and ignored the rest of the club behind the loose, translucent curtain, only focusing on Ron who had pink and purple spots of light dancing on his figure and face. 

Ron followed him on the couch, lowering himself in Carwood’s lap. His hands slid over his body in hasty caress that pushed his jacket aside, then, “Was it hard, missing me? Was it painful? Agonizing? Unbearable?”

Carwood’s breath caught in his throat, but finally he could choke out the answer: “Yes.”

“Then prove it.”

Carwood hesitated. They were not alone even behind the curtain as there were two other couples in the room with them, and he glanced to them. 

The two men had been there for half an hour, wrapped around each other with their jackets and shirts and trousers open on the couch near the back wall, both keeping their eyes closed and occasionally moaning into each other’s mouths.

The two women had taken residency on the pile of large, plush pillows on the floor, had been there before Carwood had even come to the club, and the rest of the world was dead to them as well. A quick glance in their direction showed them curled together in a loose embrace, the red-headed handsome woman having burrowed her hand under the many skirts of her companion, who laid on her back, naked from waist up with her dark curls forming a crown on her tossed back head. 

He didn’t look at them for long, and they didn’t look at him and Ron. It was privacy via respect even in the thick sexual atmosphere, and he remembered the etiquette from the army where pretence was often all they had.

Ron turned his head back to face him and kissed him deeply, then found his way down Carwood’s neck like he had a hundred times before. Every thought of others evaporated at once. Carwood felt something from thirteen years ago still living in his body, crawling under his skin and raising as fire to Ron’s lips as if something of him had lain in wait for him. 

“Have there been many others?” Ron asked, lips rough and wet against the softness of his throat.

Carwood forgot about their surroundings and thought of others he had dared to cross paths with during the years, each of them but a faint memory of momentary comfort or lust by now. “Others, yes. But many, that depends.”

“Show me what you’ve learned then,” Ron said easily as if all the others were nothing to him, just practise for Carwood so that he could love him better, like he had let him go only for a while and wholly planned to wait for him. 

And here he was. Carwood didn’t know what he felt. He was familiar with the temporary infatuation and lust for a night, he knew how to love a stranger, but what he and Ron had had and what they were doing now had never been like that. They were not strangers, they had countless nights between them already, as well as mornings, days, and evenings. They had held each other’s lives in their hands at one point, and even after thirteen years when Carwood had to admit that he didn’t know this person anymore, he was still no stranger. 

He obeyed. He took a deep breath, inhaling Ron’s scent and missed gunpowder and sweat that for him belonged along it, then lifted his hands to caress the man above him. He was wearing too many clothes, at least a shirt and one more under it, as blue as longing and spotted with light from the glass beads that separated them from the rest of the club. 

“Let’s switch,” Carwood said, fingers stroking around the stiff collar of Ron’ shirt. “Let me on top.” 

Ron yielded easily, falling back on the couch and allowing Carwood to straddle his lap instead. It was an easy position and a familiar one too, although Carwood couldn’t understand how as young men they had managed to pull this position off in an office chair; now the wide, soft cushion under his knees was vital to keep him comfortable enough to allow the storm of arousal gather.

Ron relaxed back and his hands slipped from Carwood’s shoulders down to his hips, pulling him flush against him with one strong pull. He was so strong, ever the soldier, just like Carwood had been able to tell from everything about him. 

So familiar, so strong and so beautiful that the sight of him had sent him running. Now feeling that strength at his hips and seeing those hungry eyes staring up at him from under wild strands of dark hair he felt roaring happiness at being back here again. 

He tilted his hips slightly, gave a tasting sway and watched how Ron’s lips parted to let out a thin breath. Ron seemed to sink back more against the cushions, but his hips rose up to meet Carwood, who was rocked forward more tightly against the other. 

With his legs spread and sliding so snuggly into Ron’s lap, Carwood could feel the half hard cock against him and rocked down against the feeling, pressing the tender place in his groin into the other as intimately as he could. This time he breathed out with Ron.

They rubbed against each other slowly, moving in deep, languid grind that coaxed them both to the heights of arousal. For a moment Carwood simply moved with the flow, spikes of arousal driving into his gut every time he felt a growing erection press against him, and as an afterthought he started to undo Ron’s shirt buttons. The thick cotton blend was soft and smooth under his fingers, but the little buttons gave him grief while all he wanted to do was sink down onto the other man’s cock again and again, but he focused his heated thoughts on getting his hands on Ron’s skin.

He let himself melt against Ron, who received him into his arms easily, sighing when they came chest to chest. Carwood nuzzled against the side of Ron’s neck, who then helpfully tipped his head back to offer his neck to be tasted. 

He wanted to be good, Carwood suddenly realized about himself, good like he was about to be inspected by a commanding officer, and good in the eyes of anyone who happened to see him. He felt his heart skip a beat and then start to hammer at the thought, and with his mouth against Ron’s neck he glanced up through the bead curtain again.

No one was looking as staring wasn’t allowed, but everyone knew what they were doing here. People only came through the curtains for one reason, that was why the curtains had been placed there in the first place, and he was sure the moans could be heard over the jukebox and the chatter of the club. He had been caught in the arms of this gorgeous American soldier and danced through the glass beads in barely ten minutes. 

He felt his heart thumping and his skin flushing. He imagined eyes on them and felt his skin prickling all over, and something hot slushed through him and pooled in his belly. For a moment he felt almost dizzy with it, but then he turned his eyes away from the glimmering curtains and focused them back on Ron, who was there, real and alive under him, breathing heavily, his hands idly caressing his back while his hips bore up with contrasting force.

Carwood swallowed. He wanted to be _good_. 

“Did you like those pictures that you gave me?” he asked, curious.

“Of course,” Ron whispered back, his soft voice a quiet murmur meant only for him. “I loved them. No one else draws us like that. Reminded me of you… You, so fetching in your pinks and greens…” 

Carwood hummed with pleasure at the thought of Ron thinking about him. He wondered if he had looked at those pictures in bed too, admired them and touched himself while letting his mind fly with the images. 

“I wish you were in uniform,” he confessed, thinking about his favourite work of art, excitement bubbling inside him like in a shaken bottle of Coke.

There was a wicked gleam to Ron’s eyes then, a sudden sharpness that cut through the haze of arousal even when he rubbed against his harder and the tips of his fingers dug into his sides. “Do you now?” he asked. 

“Uh-huh,” Carwood admitted, willingly caught and blushing. He wasn’t sure if he could stand teasing about it, so he pushed both his hands under Ron’s shirt to caress his belly and chest, hoping to distract him. 

“I’d do that for you,” Ron breathed even as he squirmed under the caresses and chewed on his lower lip. “I’ll do it, if you like.” 

The promise of some other time in the future was certainly too much, and Carwood surged up to silence Ron with a kiss. He had chewed his lips raw, and Carwood sucked the lower one between his to soothe it, tasting a faint tang of blood that only made him kiss him deeper. 

He kissed with his eyes closed and a flurry of images of Ron in his uniform filled his head, making the arousal spike. They were half fantasies, half memories, each making him burn hotter than the last one, and the heat urged him to run his hands lower to get Ron’s fly open. 

He wanted to be good for him after all this time, to do this well and show how practiced he was, and maybe even top it off by showing how he still knew how to touch Ron. God, he hoped he still knew. 

He didn’t strip either one of them any more than was needed, undoing belts and trouser buttons and pushing the restraining fabric down their thighs, a strange nostalgic feel around the practical limits their loving had to work around. Gently he peeled Ron out of his underwear, leaving him exposed under him on the cushions and pillows of the couch. There was a softness to Ron now, to his stomach and his thighs, something that told not only about his age but also of abundance of food, and something about that endeared him. Carwood stared at the flexing muscles under the soft surface and the trail of black hair guiding his gaze to the exposed cock while he wiggled out of his own underwear. 

He felt light and alive, graceful like liquid and just as unrestrained, and with a heated sigh he sank back on the man below him, both new and familiar. Ron welcomed him just as eagerly, his hands pushing greedily under his shirt and feeling out his upper body. His fingers skimming along his sides, caressing his soft stomach and chest, stroking familiar sensitive spots and shamelessly thumbing his nipples, confident in their shared history and gained a smile on his face when his caresses were rewarded with a chocked back moan from Carwood.

For a moment Carwood hovered on Ron, hunched over and rocking down, his skin tingling when his inner thigh came in contact with the side of Ron’s. He enjoyed his caresses and pushed down into his hands, his spine like liquid when he let his body curl and twist as if he could let out the foaming desire like that. 

His breath rushed out of him, and for a moment he let his eyes close when he enjoyed the firm caress of Ron’s hands, old patterns drawn into his skin like a secret language written in white ink. It was so good to be there and let the moment stretch on, the only sounds in his ear their low hums of pleasure, heavy breathing and the pounding of his own heart.

He wished he could return that, he really did, and his desire to rise up to the sweet pleasure Ron was giving him pushed Carwood on the move, and he fit his hand between their bodies. He didn’t need to see it to know his path, and he didn’t need to look to make it good. His hand smoothed itself along the shaft curling against Ron’s stomach, and with ease wrapped around the length. He gave him his palm as a snug and tender nest and gave his cock a few firm pumps, then splayed his fingers to play with the shaft, tracing it up and down with his fingertips and toying with the tip.

Carwood felt a heavy wave of hot desire washing over him when he watched Ron’s brow furrow and his mouth open to pant. Ron let out a deep groan of pleasure, his hips bucking up and his back arching, sparking a need in Carwood to join that flow of ecstasy, to offer more and share it. 

His body still felt strangely fluid, hot and molten as something like a powerful current turned and foamed in his core, and following the pull down he dived and nestled his body snug against Ron’s.

They sank down together, Ron with his back on the pillows and Carwood straddling his lap, his entire frame surging against the man under him and like riding the same wave fell in sync with him. Their hips found each other easily, and Carwood opened his palm so that he could thrust against the other and squeeze them both in his hand. 

Ron gasped and his hips surged up giving Carwood a delicious taste of how strong he was, and his hands flew up to grasp Carwood by his forearms, fingers digging into his biceps. They both trembled and panted through the first few thrusts that were so intense in their intimacy that it left no room for anything else. Carwood felt his head become blissfully clear of all thought, only sensation and what his senses told him remaining. 

Ron’s hands were restless, his grip on his arms tightening and loosening periodically. He licked his lips and breathed harshly, his chest rising and falling, and he stared up at Carwood through his lashes, eyes clouded with pleasure. His right hand let go of Carwood’s arm and drifted up instead, the palm hot even through the shirt, and came to cradle the back of Carwood’s head. Ron’s thighs flexed under Carwood and kept his securely in his lap, and even though his hips moved in frantic surges, Ron’s fingers were languid when they stroked through Carwood’s hair.

Carwood closed his eyes and enjoyed the sweet delight of gentle affection and carnal pleasure at once, and when Ron grabbed his hair and brought his forehead to rest against his, he yielded easily. They writhed against each other in urgent hunger and their harsh breaths mingled and puffed against their faces, but there was a deeper craving in the way Ron nuzzled Carwood’s cheek with his nose and how his red lips claimed a kiss that was slow and wet.

Ron wrapped his arms around Carwood’s shoulders and kept him close. “Yeah, just like that,” he panted into his ear, his voice low and deep and quiet, but spoken straight to his ear loud and clear. “Like that, sweetheart, yes – Still so good… So good…“

It felt heavenly to be praised like that, and even though Carwood was simply stroking their cocks in his fist while kissing Ron’s neck, he felt like he was performing some sort of an obscene and demanding ritual only he could do for him. Aching desire pumped through his veins and pooled in his belly, heavy and bristling, sweet but demanding. 

Ron arched his back and took in a shivering breath, getting closer and losing what little restrain he had ever had in him while words like honey poured from his lips in a rushed whisper, smooth and unashamed like prayer. “Oh – oh – You darling, you dearest, sweetest darling… _Oh_ – “ 

He came with a breathless little groan and a deep sigh while his hips pushed and pushed against Carwood, whose hand was suddenly covered in thick come. He leaned back just in time to see the bliss break out on Ron’s flushed face, and deep adoration made his heart throb at the sight. 

Ron didn’t stay lost in his own pleasure though, but Carwood hadn’t expected that. Never had Ron simply taken from him and left him wanting, and now too his eyes opened suddenly, sharp and dark with lust as he peered at Carwood. His arms dropped from around his shoulders and ran across his back all the way down until his fingers dug into his hip and backside and coaxed him to move again.

Carwood obeyed, still hunched down over the other and his head resting on his shoulder. Ron encouraged him to move against him, and Carwood took the cue, closed his eyes and let his body seek the pleasure. Even with his eyes closed he still knew this was Ron, every curve of his body long since seared into memory, his scent strong and unmistakable, and his low murmuring voice just like he recalled it.

“Go on,” Ron urged softly, a hoarse whisper in his ear and teeth grazing, “Go on, little darling, fuck me.”

Carwood moaned breathlessly and did as he was told without even thinking about it. How could he not, when he was in the most heavenly place he could imagine, held tightly in Ron’s lap and allowed to arch and bow and writhe in his hold. He felt a deep clench in his gut, a slump and then a hot wave that took everything with it, wiping his head clear and rattling his limbs. He came with Ron holding him tight as a vice and whispering in his ear all things dirty and sweet. 

It didn’t feel like it was over even though it clearly was, both of them spent. The sound of the club and the presence of the world beyond their couch was coming back, and Carwood almost felt embarrassed but Ron was petting his hair again and he could never be ashamed about anything that transpired between them. 

He enjoyed the moment for a minute more, then reached for his trousers and pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket to clean them both up.

Ron huffed a laugh. Carwood raised a brow at him.

“What?”

Ron gave him a sparkling, pointed look. “You came here prepared, I see.”

“Of course I did,” Carwood answered, and Ron seemed both impressed and amused by his frankness. They both knew why they had come here tonight, but still somehow stating it so obviously made it amusing, though mockery might have been just covering coyness.

They didn’t comment on it further, simply made themselves decent again, but didn’t get up from the couch, didn’t even sit upright but remained close. The two other couples were still in the room and a third one had joined them at some point, but they didn’t look at them and they didn’t look back either, so they might have as well not been there. 

Something about that tugged at a memory in the back of Carwood’s mind, a part that hadn’t aged but was still as bright-eyed and hopeful as a young man who had thought everything would sort itself out. “Am I going to see you again?” he asked with a mouth of a young man. 

Ron tilted his head and smiled, then raised his hand to brush his fingers along the side of Carwood’s head like tugging a strand of hair behind his ear, only his hair was too short to warrant such a gesture, making it simply affectionate for affection’s sake. 

“You have always been my favorite,” he said in a quiet voice, almost contemplative like it was a strange opinion to have. “You still are,” he added, his brow furrowing with what must have been realization, and stroked his hair again. 

Carwood tilted his head, begging to be pet, then turned to kiss Ron’s wrist. He let his lips linger on the pulse point, then slowly opened his eyes to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. There was a very promising glow of a young man’s fire along the confidence of this older one in his eyes, and Carwood smiled.


End file.
